





Class 

Book B . 4 


CD££RICHT DEPOSm 













The Story of an Old House 
The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


% 

AURELIA RICE 



THOMAS TODD BOSTON 



Copyright, 1921 
by Aurelia Rice 


fEB 23 1922 


A654868 


DEDICATED TO 
MY BELOVED DEAD 









k 


The Story of an Old House 




V 




m 




, ’n 


(fgry 


- 


Y .1 ^ » 


‘ JH: 


' ♦'ij 




% 


I w 


.^7 




* fi 


w 


i # 

» n 


rt'f r 




If! 


•V.»f t 


t V 


)Sl 


!r,^H 






It,-V 


n‘« *. 


Ltwt r I 


ki 


f i 


I • 


• ■ 1 1 


.« V. 


.'.'f 


,c •»• » 






Vi 


m 




> ^ 


'I 






I 


fi 


* 




i «' 


4 ^ / 


>* #» 


«s 






< "■** i 




*». ‘A 






k '1 > 






> ■ * • P ’ »» 


I . » 


\ . 




1' 




'»'• . <» 


iV 




( * 


wy^ 

I :' ' 


V 


,i 1 


A I 








•4' 




k /M 


i 


* • 1 * 

i •r'Ai 




‘V f' 




t h 




< 1 ** 


-*V 


*)<( 


.1. 


'¥ 


( " * 


'.di 


,f* ir*' 


> I 


f i 


■»i I • 1 


I • 


,♦ .-V ' r - X 




f * 


A S 




‘f- 


V ■■(?. 


^ k 




fOi* 


ir: 


t VT. 


I i‘ 








F'.t‘ . ’ 






4 4 




► * • 


I' 


$ k 


r* 


I', . 


Vi 


t 


ll'* .. 


0. V 


i 


*\t] 


» f 


>J_Ll 


V' f 


f ! 


• r,.^ 


♦ B ' 


d > 


» I 


. 


' t 


i^: 


vmm 








) *• 


i‘V, • 






/: 





b J . 

f-y ■ : ' I ^ 

di-^, “Mfmiili' 

VjSiv.' • ' ' 


• ' *r 






m 


VI »» 


T .' 


'4f 


. fi 




t »’ 


•'I 






IS* 




.1 


t » 


til 







THE STORY OF AN OLD HOUSE 


I 

ANY a time, on my rambles through 
the western suburbs of St. Louis, my 
way led me past a stately old mansion, 
perched formally on a high embank- 
ment, formed by cutting through and 
grading a boulevard leading directly to 
Forest Park. There was something almost pathetic in 
the aspect of this old house, and I never passed it without 
looking up sympathetically to its blinking windows, or 
sending a sigh of regret to the poor, sickly-looking trees 
on the edge of the embankment, whore roots were exposed 
by each devastating rainfall. They, like the old house, 
were making a brave fight for life, though the odds seemed 
terribly against them. 

Late one October afternoon, just after a most refresh- 
ing shower had washed the accumulated dust from leaf 
and bough, and the stone sidewalks looked most inviting 
after nature’s effective cleansing, I started out on my daily 
constitutional. The sun, which had been hidden most of 
the day, burst forth as if before setting it wished to ir- 
7 



The Story of an Old House 


radiate every raindrop with its effulgence. The whole 
landscape was bathed in a soft golden light and the air 
was full of harmony. Never before did the old house, 
which I was now approaching, seem so restful and attrac- 
tive. The English ivy that, in its clinging way, was 
covering foot after foot of its sides and fagade, was gently 
stirred by the evening breeze and seemed to whisper to 
the old walls, “ Never fear, dear friends, as long as you 
are in my embrace you will be safe from the ravages of 
the elements.’^ The windows, usually rather dim and 
sad-eyed, on this enchanting evening seemed full of light 
and merriment, while the poor old trees, relieved of their 
burden of dust, took heart again and waved their wither- 
ing branches as if in welcome to all passers-by. 

I stood for some time gazing at the stately old pile, 
and suddenly an uncontrollable desire to approach it more 
closely took complete possession of me. Acting upon the 
impulse, I retraced my steps to the end of the street, where 
a little wooden stairway brought me to a well-kept road 
leading directly to the house. Mounting this, I soon found 
myself climbing the rather steep ascent, which was bor- 
dered on one side by a meager hedge, on the other by rich 
pasture land and an orchard, and farther on was inter- 


The Story of an Old House 


9 


cepted by a substantial garden gate, which today was for- 
tunately standing invitingly open. Near this a great New- 
foundland dog was mounting guard, all the while lazily 
ogling a brood of fine chickens, whose close proximity 
spoke well for his good nature. Noting this, I took cour- 
age and bravely prepared to pass the portals. The dog 
came close, as if he wished me to give an account of my- 
self, while the fowls scurried to a safe distance, there to 
hold a hurried survey of so unheard-of an intrusion. Some- 
thing must have satisfied his dogship that it was safe to 
let me pass, for he slowly walked away and I resumed my 
tour of exploration. 

Surely, I mused, this is one of the old gardens one 
reads about — neglected, yet giving forth a wealth of 
bloom and fragrance; a tangle of flowers and vines and 
rare old trees, beneath whose spreading branches rustic 
chairs and benches, many in the last stages of decay, invite 
one to repose and rest. One of these stood temptingly 
near, and I sat down to rest awhile. How the dazzling 
light transformed the old garden into radiant beauty I 
The trees glowed with color, and every flower was like 
an incense cup sending its fragrance to heaven — an offer- 
ing for the refreshing rain. The birds twittered in the 


lo The Story of an Old House 

branches above me, while the leaves rustled a low, sooth- 
ing accompaniment to their sweet notes. It was all so 
restful, and I gave myself up wholly to the influence of the 
hour. Surely dreamland must be like this. As I lounged 
indolently in the garden seat, I noticed one of the fine 
brood of fowls that had hurried away on my approach, 
coming closer and closer. She seemed much interested 
in my appearance, and, blinking her little eyes in a most 
friendly manner, amazed me by saying : 

“Monsieur Jacques and Madame Desiree will be so 
sorry to have missed your visit. They seldom leave home 
together, but today is Mademoiselle Eugenie’s fete day, 
and, as she is their beloved godchild, of course they had to 
be present at the celebration.” 

“And pray, who are Monsieur Jacques and Madame 
Desiree?” I asked of my strange companion. 

“Is it possible that you do not know who Monsieur 
Jacques is? Why, ever since Monsieur Pierre returned 
to France, Monsieur Jacques has had entire charge of this 
estate. This garden is his especial pride. Do you not 
think it beautiful?” 

“Indeed I do,” I readily answered. 

“Ah, but you should have seen it when Madame 


The Story of an Old House 


II 


Sidonie was mistress here. Of course, that was long be- 
fore my time, but Grandma Cuckadoo, up to the day of 
her death, never tired of telling us of its glories. It was 
a sad day when the serpent entered this Eden, and by its 
cruel machinations drove forth the inmates. After their 
departure, the place was made still more desolate by the 
surveyor and his staff of workmen, who with spade and 
barrow hastened the work of destruction. You must 
know, in the days of Grandma Cuckadoo this house stood 
on the brow of the third hill, as it was called, and before 
our gates the whole countryside rested its horses going 
to and from town. The beautiful trees that are now 
perishing on the edge of the hill then formed a stately 
avenue, beneath whose cool shadows all passers-by were 
glad to stop and chat awhile with neighbor and friend. 
Grandma said it kept them busy, those days, gathering the 
grain that fell from the farmers’ wagons, all the while 
listening to much village gossip as it dropped from the 
lips of these township worthies. Oh, those must have 
been halcyon days! If you don’t believe me, just ask 
the windows to tell you of some of the romances they 
witnessed. All through the day they had nothing to do 
but watch the ever-shifting panorama, while now, poor 


12 The Story of an Old House 

things, they might as well be blind for all they can see of 
the passing world. Ah, me I Time does bring such sad — ” 

Suddenly the proud descendant of Grandma Cuckadoo 
beat a most undignified retreat and from afar off the 
words, “Whom have we here?” reached my inner con- 
sciousness. As they became clearer and clearer, I roused 
myself with a start to the real situation. I had been 
asleep — but for how long I could hardly judge. The 
sun had long since set, and in the gloaming I noticed an 
elderly couple standing close beside me. Summoning all 
my presence of mind, I arose at once and, turning to the 
old gentleman, said: “Pardon my intrusion and permit me 
to introduce myself and to explain how I happen to be 
here. My name is Ernestine Walters and an irresistible 
desire to see this delightful old garden made me an in- 
truder upon your domain. Not seeing any one about, 1 
took courage to enter, and, feeling a little weary, meant 
to rest only a moment, but the quiet and charm of the 
place must have lulled me to sleep. Pray pardon the 
liberty I took.” 

“I beg of you, say nothing more about it,” the old 
gentleman courteously replied, “and in turn allow me to 
introduce myself to you — Jacques Loubet — and this is 
my good wife.” 


The Story of an Old House 


13 


“Oh, you are Monsieur Jacques and this is Madame 
Desiree! You see, I know all about you,” I was tempted 
to say, but it might have cost my feathered friend her 
stately head — this giving away of family secrets — and so 
I refrained. 

“May we ask you to enter the house?” Madame 
Loubet inquired. 

“I fear it is already late, and I must hasten to reach 
home before dark; but should your kind invitation hold 
good for some other day, I would be delighted to come 
again, for this old house has long had a great fascination 
for me.” 

“Do so, by all means,” Monsieur Jacques said 
heartily, while Madame beamed her approval. Both 
bowed and I beat a hasty retreat. The Newfoundland 
gallantly accompanied me to the end of the road and, 
with a mental **au revoir” to the old place, I was soon on 
my homeward march. 

* Sjt He * 

October brings us some of the most perfect days of 
the year. It is the carnival time of the seasons — nature’s 
merrymaking after the harvests have been garnered, when 
Summer lingers on to greet young Autumn, who, giving 


14 


The Story of an Old House 


no hint of how wild and boisterous he can be, is all smiles 
and complaisance. The trees wear their most gorgeous 
foliage in honor of the occasion, while the sun takes care 
that not a cloud shall obscure the deep azure of the 
heavens, and the songsters of wood and glen send forth 
their choicest bits of melody — their song of farewell 
before taking their departure for distant climes. All 
nature seems en fete, and to one who understands and 
loves her mysteries, she is most entrancing at this time of 
the year. 

It was just such an afternoon, when the air was cool 
enough to make a long walk a delight, that I wended my 
way toward the old house to pay the Loubets the visit to 
which I looked forward with eager delight. Nothing 
so shortens distance as thought does and, before I had 
decided just what I would say to my hosts, I had climbed 
the hill and was nearing the garden gate. The New- 
foundland was not on guard today, but, as I approached 
the house, I saw him standing quite close to Madame 
Desiree, intently watching her binding up some vines that 
had become loosened from a large trellis, which formed 
a porchlike entrance to the side of the house. My foot- 
steps caught his sharp ear and, with a bark and bound. 


The Story of an Old House 15 

he rushed toward me. Of course, I screamed, but Ma- 
dame Desiree’s kindly voice soon reassured me. 

“Do not be afraid, dear child,” she called, “Murat 
will not harm you. He is only a little playful.” And 
coming toward me with extended hands, all the while ad- 
monishing the dog to silence, she drew me toward her. 
“Come into the house with me, ma cherie; you must be so 
fatigued after your long walk and awful fright with that 
naughty dog. He has no manners.” 

I was only too anxious to be led out of harm’s way 
and gladly followed Madame Desiree through the clem- 
atis-covered doorway into a long and rather narrow hall, 
thence through a door on the left into a cozy and sunny 
little sitting room. 

“Now, do sit down in this easy chair while I bring 
you some refreshment.” 

“Oh, please do not trouble yourself, Madame;” but 
my words fell on empty space. The kind little French- 
woman would have her way, and I was left alone in her 
quiet bower. One could not imagine a more cheerful, 
homelike place than this little sitting room. The sun 
came streaming in through windows filled with all kinds 
of blooming plants. Chintz-covered easy chairs and a 


i6 


The Story of an Old House 


great, roomy, old-fashioned sofa, in the corner of which 
a splendid Maltese cat was enjoying her afternoon nap, 
gave an air of indescribable comfort, while a well-filled 
bookcase and several fine old prints on the walls gave 
the unmistakable stamp of culture. Near me stood Ma- 
dame Desiree’s little work table, upon which her knitting 
and an open book were lying side by side. I had scarcely 
taken note of all this when Madame Desiree came bust- 
ling in with a tray holding a decanter, glasses, and a por- 
celain basket filled with delicious looking tarts. 

“I am so sorry to have you trouble yourself on my 
account,” I protested. 

“Believe me,” Madame answered, “it is a real pleas- 
ure. I know how it always exhausts me to climb that steep 
hill and then, your fright with that awful dog. But a 
little of this cordial, which is of my own making and which 
my husband insists is as good as Benedictine, though he 
would hardly be an impartial judge — is it not so, ma 
cherie? A little of this will soon bring back the color to 
your lips and cheeks.” 

Thus my kind hostess chattered on, as she helped me 
generously to liqueur and cakes. 

“This cordial is really delicious, Madame, and these 


The Story of an Old House 


17 


tarts take one back to the enticing windows of the little 
bakeshops on the Boulevard des Italiens.” 

“Then you have been to Paris, Mademoiselle — ’’ 

“Ernestine,” I interrupted. 

“If you will allow me to be so familiar — Mademoi- 
selle Ernestine.” 

“Yes, I have been to Paris many times and each 
time was fascinated anew by the city and its gay and happy 
throngs.” 

“Ah, yes, all France is beautiful. It is over thirty 
years since we left there and yet, do you know, I dream 
of the dear old home very often.” 

A far-off look came into the old lady’s eyes, as if her 
thoughts had taken wings. I would not for the world 
have disturbed her reverie, and so silently watched the 
placid face before me. Surely, I was thinking, if the old 
house has its tragedy, the gloom and sadness thereof have 
not tinged this woman’s life or surroundings. Here, at 
least, all seems serene. Madame Desiree must have 
divined my thoughts, for, with a start, she turned to me, 
saying sweetly: 

“Do pardon my abstraction, but your mention of 
Paris awoke a whole train of sleeping memories and made 


^8 The Story of an Old House 

me quite forgetful of the*present; but I shall not be rude 
again. And that reminds me that I am keeping you here 
talking to an uninteresting old woman, while you are all 
anxiety to roam about the house and garden. Is it not 
so?*’ 

Before I could reply, Madame continued, “But first 
tell me, ma cherie, what is there about this old place that 
has attracted you so strongly and so strangely to it?” 

“I cannot explain that myself, Madame Loubet, but 
I do know that every time I passed here, there was a 
strange fascination that kept my eyes riveted upon the old 
house as long as it was in view, though I never really ex- 
pected to cross its threshold. My interest was so aroused 
that I tried in many ways to learn its history, for that it 
has one has long been a conviction with me. But all I 
could learn was that a Monsieur Ricard, one of the 
wealthiest of the early French settlers, built the house 
years ago, when the western portion of St. Louis was little 
more than farm lands; also that most of the family are 
dead now, and that is why there was no one to prevent the 
city’s ruthless treatment of the old place.” 

“Ah,” Madame Loubet interrupted, “but there was 
some one who did try to save the fine old trees and our 


The Story of an Old House 19 

beautiful garden. My husband did his best, but what can 
one voice do against a whole chorus of protests? It was 
decreed that the boulevard should be made, and no senti- 
ment could stay the onward march of progress. When 
Monsieur Henri Ricard built this house, he imagined that 
generations of his descendants would dwell in it and 
enjoy its comforts and beauties. It was another example 
of *Uhomme propose et Dieu disposed Ah, my child, 
how well I remember the festivities that followed each 
other and the eclat with which Claremont, as they named 
it, was thrown open to the many friends of the Ricards. 
Balls, dinner parties, soirees^ were the order of the day, 
and all was gayety, sunshine, and happiness. Madame 
Elise had her especial rose garden and conservatories. 
The vineyard and orchard were grandly laid out and the 
stables were the wonder of St Louis. But, suddenly, 
there came a withering blight upon all this blooming life. 
The young daughter of the house was stricken with fever 
and died just as she was emerging into young womanhood. 
She had the same name as yours. Mademoiselle — Ernes- 
tine — and that was what immediately attracted my hus- 
band and me towards you, my child — your figure, voice, 
in fact, your whole bearing reminds us strongly of the 


20 The Story of an Old House 

dear girl whom we all idolized. Her old French nurse 
used to say, Mademoiselle Ernestine was one of God’s 
angels whom He sometimes sends upon earth to make 
mankind better and purer, and when their mission has 
been fulfilled, He calls them back to their heavenly 
abode.’ ” 

“What a beautiful thought,” I ventured to remark, 
my own eyes full of tears, while good Madame Desiree 
removed her glasses to give them a vigorous rubbing. 

“Yes, yes, her death was an awful blow, from which 
Madame Elise never fully recovered. Then when Mon- 
sieur Pierre went to Paris to finish his studies, the house 
became still more quiet and lonely. Later came the news 
of Monsieur Pierre’s betrothal to Mademoiselle Sidonie 
de Claremont, a near relative of Madame Elise, and once 
more the house was alive with workmen and designers, for 
the young Parisienne was to find her new home as much 
like the one she was leaving as devotion and wealth could 
make it. Ah, Mademoiselle, we were sure, with the advent 
of the new daughter, some of the former happiness would 
return, and we were not to be disappointed, for there was 
love and harmony on both sides and for several years all 

* This sentence is the motif for the little poem printed on the last page of the book. 


The Story of an Old House 21 

went well. How many times have I thanked God that 
our good friends, Monsieur Ricard and his wife, did not 
live to witness the tragedy that was to darken forever the 
life of their only child, and to make desolate the beautiful 
home they had built with such care and lavishness ! But 
I must be tiring you dreadfully, ma cherie. It is not 
often that I speak of the olden time, and I do not know 
what it is that has loosened my tongue so today.” 

“Dear Madame Loubet,” I replied, “I cannot tell 
you how eagerly I have followed all you have said. This 
seems like the realization of some day dream, and I feel 
its influence more deeply than I can tell.” 

“I wish I could have shown you Claremont in its 
palmy days,” Madame answered. “Now most of the 
rooms are dismantled and everything coverable has been 
covered to keep out the dust and moths ; but since you are 
so interested, maybe you would not mind such little draw- 
backs, while it would afford me real pleasure to take you 
through the old house.” 

“I should like nothing better,” I immediately replied. 

Madame Desiree arose and, going to a corner cup- 
board, took down from the upper shelf a quaint little 
basket filled with keys. “Abigail,” she called into an inner 


2 2 The Story of an Old House 

room, “tell Monsieur Loubet, when he comes in, that I 
will not be long away. And now. Mademoiselle, if you 
are ready, we will go.” 

II 

Madame Desiree led the way down a narrow hall, 
where she unlocked a heavy oak door and, as it swung 
back with a creak and a groan, it was like an angry pro- 
test, on the part of this stalwart guardian, that unhallowed 
eyes should be permitted to peer into the mysteries of the 
old house. What a contrast there was between the nar- 
row passage along which we had come and this spacious 
entrance hall, with its grand doorway, high wainscoting, 
between which and the paneled ceiling were shields and 
armor of finest steel. Madame explained that the house 
was largely patterned after the French style of architec- 
ture — the offices and Loubet apartments en parterre; the 
salons, music room, and library, and the large and small 
dining rooms, in the hel Stage; with the apartments, bou- 
doirs, and guest chambers situated on the floor above. We 
mounted the broad and massive staircase with its heavily 
carved balustrade, and soon reached the upper landing, 
which extended the entire width of the hall and afforded 


The Story of an Old House 23 

a most comprehensive view into both the lower and upper 
stories. A deeply recessed window and a heavy double 
door occupied the south wall. 

“Step into that recess, ma cherie, and see what a 
charming view one has of the garden from that point, 
while I rest a bit to gather breath.” 

I did so and, as I looked into the delightful old garden, 
with its dreamy, vine-embowered nooks, it seemed as if 
the spell of the place again possessed me, and that I was 
dreaming the present experiences. 

Madame’s voice, however, soon recalled me to actual 
conditions as she said, pointing to a portrait of an elderly 
man on the east wall, which the light from the window 
illumined : 

“See, Mademoiselle, that is the portrait of Monsieur 
Pierre’s grandfather, the first Ricard to try his fortunes 
away from his native land. He must have been a gay 
cavalier — this Henri Ricard — if all reports concerning 
him be true, and I fancy his merry eyes found it more to 
their taste to peep into the heart of a pretty woman than 
into the mysteries of the chemical laboratory. He was 
a young chemist, of fine old family but with poor prospects, 
when Monsieur Doulard, of this city, met him in Paris, 


24 


The Story of an Old House 


and I do not imagine it required much persuasion on Mon- 
sieur Doulard’s part to get the adventure loving young 
Parisien to accompany him to St. Louis, which was then 
little more than a village. But this gay Lothario must have 
had more practical business sense than he was ever given 
credit for by his intimates, for, when he died, he left quite 
a fortune, which his son Henri (or Harry, as his American 
friends called him) doubled — some say trebled — in land 
speculation and trade. But now come, my dear, we must 
go farther. I am going to reverse the usual order of 
things and show you the most beautiful apartments first — 
the large dining room, or banquet hall, as we used to call 
it. In it are the fine Flemish tapestries that Monsieur 
Ricard purchased in Paris on one of his many trips abroad, 
and some rare pieces of mahogany.” 

So saying, Madame unlocked the large double door 
and we entered a most spacious apartment. She bustled 
about, opening windows and shutters, and then drew back 
the muslin curtains that covered the tapestried walls. All 
this while, a portrait occupying the central panel above the 
mantel claimed my undivided attention. It was the picture 
of a young woman scarcely older than eighteen years, 
dressed like one of Greuze’s shepherdesses, with her large 


The Story of an Old House 


25 


hat coquettishly placed upon her dark curls. In all my 
life I had never seen a more winsome face. Its sunny 
smile challenged a smile in return, while the laughing eyes 
looked deeply into mine, as if to fathom the admiration 
they called forth there. 

“I see, my dear, you are as much fascinated by Madame 
Sidonie’s beauty as every one was who came in contact 
with her. But, believe me, it was a fatal gift.” 

“Is it possible that this is the Madame Sidonie who 
brought such misery to this home?” I asked in astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, yes! It is this one with the innocent face and 
childlike smile that has made our good Pierre a wanderer 
upon the face of the earth.” 

“Dear Madame Loubet, would it be very dreadful, 
were I to ask you the story of this woman’s life? ” 

The old lady hesitated for a moment, then replied : 

“I am sure my telling you would dishonor no one’s 
confidence, for the story was public property twenty-one 
years ago. The newspapers of that day teemed with the 
particulars of the sad event; but it is most painful — 
even at this late day — to touch upon it.” 

“Then pray do not, Madame,” I interrupted quickly. 


26 


The Story of an Old House 


“It would be very unjust, after having brought you 
thus far, to leave you in the dark, especially as you have 
so rightly felt that this house has its sad story. Be seated, 
then, and I will try to tell you just as things happened in 
the long ago. 

“Monsieur Pierre had been married three years when 
his father died suddenly. Not many months thereafter 
his good and gentle mother followed her husband to the 
Great Unknown. Their death brought deep sorrow, not 
only to Monsieur Pierre and his wife, but to us as well. 
Harry Ricard, from his earliest boyhood, had been my 
husband’s firm and devoted friend. How often has he 
told me that he does not think a willful lie ever crossed 
Harry’s lips, or a base thought ever found lodgment in 
his heart. None ever had a nobler friend. But I am 
digressing again, my dear; old people will be garrulous, 
you know ; they have lived through so much, have such a 
stock of material to draw upon, that when they become 
reminiscent there is no stopping them — is it not so? ” 

I smiled, not venturing to contradict, and Madame 
continued : 

“Monsieur Pierre, much as he felt the double blow, 
had his large property interests to divert his mind from 


The Story of an Old House 


27 


his sorrow and soon regained his wonted cheerfulness. 
But it was not so with Madame Sidonie. She seemed to 
brood over the unalterable, until the roses left her cheeks 
and she became restless and moody. Her physician pre- 
scribed a change, and they spent six months in Europe. 
With their return, a very gay period began for the house- 
hold — a reign of pleasure. These foyers and apartments, 
my child, rang with laughter and resounded with music 
day after day. It was as if they had brought some of the 
atmosphere of Paris back with them to staid St. Louis. 

“No stranger of note, no artist of renown came to the 
city, who did not make his bow to Madame Sidonie and 
her guests. Pierre was proud of his beautiful and bril- 
liant wife and, while he worshiped her, seemed content 
with a very calm affection in return. So the days passed 
quickly and happily enough. Indeed, I feel almost sure, 
if there had been children to round out and make more 
complete the lives of these two, there would be little more 
to tell — but it was decreed otherwise. 


2 8 The Story of an Old House 


III 

“One afternoon — it was a few weeks before 
Easter — and just when the garden was beginning to show 
the coming of Spring, Madame Sidonie, as she was 
slowly walking up and down the shady, mossy little path 
that bordered the highway, noticed a horseman leaving 
the brow of the hill and coming toward her. He had pro- 
ceeded but a short distance down the rather steep descent, 
when the horse stumbled and fell, throwing its rider with 
great force against a pile of stones in the roadway. As 
soon as it could regain its feet, the frightened animal 
started on a mad rush down the road, leaving its master 
lying bleeding and unconscious where he had fallen. 

“Madame Sidonie’s cries soon brought the gardener 
and his assistant, as well as Monsieur Pierre, who had 
been inspecting some new drains with them not far away; 
they hurried to where the poor man was lying, and one 
look was enough to convince them that he was seriously 
injured. A stretcher was improvised and the stranger 
gently carried to one of the lower rooms, while a mes- 
senger was hurried to the city for medical aid. 

“Dr. Benedict gravely shook his head — always an ill 


The Story of an Old House 


29 


omen with him — as he said: ‘Perfect rest and quiet may 
pull him through, though it looks very doubtful just now. 
At any rate, Friend Ricard, it would be a crime to move 
him.’ 

“‘Then he shall stay just where he is, and may God 
help him!’ our good Pierre replied. 

“And so, Jules, Monsieur Ricard’s valet, was given 
charge of the sick room, while Madame Sidonie and I 
assisted him as much as we could. For two weeks there 
was little progress toward recovery, and I can assure you. 
Mademoiselle, it was extremely pitiful to see so stalwart 
a young man lying there so hopelessly, helplessly ill, though, 
I will confess, had I known what was coming, I should 
have withheld my pity.” 

“As far as I can judge, that would not have been at all 
like you, Madame Loubet,” I interrupted. “And how 
did you find out who your unfortunate guest was, Ma- 
dame? ” 

“Letters and visiting cards, bearing the name of 
‘Victor Drummond,’ gave us the first clew. Then the 
doctor reported the case to the newspapers, so that Mon- 
sieur Drummond’s friends might be notified of the acci- 
dent and know where he could be found. And very soon 


30 


The Story of an Old House 


a number of his friends came to make inquiries and to 
offer their services. From them we learned that our 
patient was from New York and had only recently come 
to St. Louis to represent his uncle’s firm here. We were 
not surprised to hear that he belonged to a distinguished 
family, for one could see that he was of gentle birth. His 
handsome, aristocratic face plainly showed it and, I must 
say, he might have been a Frenchman, his manner was so 
perfect. As he grew better, I would sometimes take him 
a refreshing drink, or a nosegay of fragrant spring flowers, 
and I was always rewarded for doing so just by hearing 
him say : ‘ Madame Loubet, how can I ever thank you for 
all your kindness? I never knew a mother’s love and yet 
I am sure no mother could be more gentle or more kind 
than you are to me.’ 

“One could not help being good to him, he was so 
lovable. Madame Sidonie was truly the angel of the 
sick room. She knew just when a cool cloth on his fevered 
forehead, or a bit of ice to moisten his parched lips, would 
be most grateful. And as he grew better, a brighter 
light would come into his eyes or a warm flush mount to 
his cheeks whenever his young hostess entered the room. 

“Ah, me I How blind we were then. I remembered 
it all when it was too late.” 


The Story of an Old House 


31 


“And Monsieur Ricard — was he satisfied that his 
wife should devote so much of her time to this stranger? ” 
I asked. 

“My dear child, he was their guest, and the laws of 
hospitality demanded nothing less. Besides, Monsieur 
Pierre was himself so outspoken, so honest in all his deal- 
ings with his fellowmen, that he never suspected treachery 
in others. You know they say, ‘It takes a rogue to catch 
a rogue.’ My child, there is a great deal of philosophy 
in that little sentence.” 

“You seem to be somewhat of a philosopher yourself, 
Madame Loubet,” I ventured to remark. 

The dear old lady smiled good naturedly as she re- 
plied: “My husband attributes my wisdom of the world 
to our living so much higher than our neighbors. He 
thinks it makes it so much easier for me to observe the 
little world about me with its foibles and weaknesses, as 
well as its nobler side. But to return to our story. Mon- 
sieur Drummond grew stronger each day and soon we 
could read for him — a little at first, then more and more. 
After a while, the doctor permitted his patient’s being 
comfortably tucked into the large invalid chair and rolled 
out into the garden, which Spring had by this time trans- 


32 The Story of an Old House 

formed into a veritable paradise. Madame Sidonie’s 
favorite place was a little arbor literally covered with 
fragrant white honeysuckle — you can see it, Mademoi- 
selle, from the western window of this room. Here she 
would sit for hours with her book and her embroidery, 
and here it was that Monsieur Drummond was brought 
each afternoon when the weather was fine. And as he 
leaned back in his easy chair, listening to Madame Sidonie’s 
reading, the caressing tones of her voice completed the 
havoc her beauty and graciousness had made upon the 
susceptible heart of the poor young man. Monsieur 
Ricard often joined them on his return from the city, but 
even his presence did not prevent wicked ‘ Amor ’ from 
sending his deadly shafts into the very souls of two of this 
trio, making them forgetful of all else but their love. As 
the spring days lengthened into those of early summer. 
Dr. Benedict found his patient sufficiently recovered to 
warrant his return to the city and gradually to his work. 

“My dear, I really think there was not a soul upon 
the place, from the highest to the most lowly, who did not 
feel sorry to have Monsieur Drummond leave Claremont. 
He had endeared himself so to every one, not only because 
he was appreciative of every little kindness and gave with 


The Story of an Old House 


33 


so generous a hand, but he had such a cordial way with 
him and such a happy disposition, that always asserted 
itself in spite of suffering. 

“As soon as he was well enough to get about, he be- 
came a constant visitor to Claremont, and one of its most 
welcome guests. Would you believe it. Mademoiselle, he 
would never come but what he would first pay me a special 
visit, and very soon I learned to know his knock. In 
answer to my ^ entrez* his handsome head would be thrust 
in and his cheery voice call out: *Bon jour or bon soir, 
Madame Loubet — how has the world been going with 
you today? Was it full of sunshine or were there a few 
clouds ? ’ 

“You see, my child, I remember every incident as dis- 
tinctly as if it had taken place yesterday instead of years 
ago. 

“On the 15th day of August, the Ricards were to 
leave St. Louis for a six weeks’ pleasure trip through the 
East. On the night of the 13th, Jules, coming home 
from the city at a late hour, took a short cut through 
the garden. As he passed the little arbor near the east- 
ern wall, he was surprised to hear voices coming from 
that direction. Who but dishonest persons could be in 


34 


The Story of an Old House 


this out-of-the-way place at such an hour? He drew 
near stealthily, noiselessly, and was nearly frightened out 
of his senses when he recognized the voice of Monsieur 
Drummond saying: 

‘“I cannot imagine why he does not come. He prom- 
ised to have the carriage at the appointed place punctually 
at one.’ 

“^Oh, dear Victor, I hope he will not try our patience 
too severely. I confess, I am so unnerved, that I could not 
stand this strain very long.’ 

‘“But, my darling, just think of how near the goal 
we are.’ 

“Jules did not wait to hear more, but flew to Mon- 
sieur Pierre’s room to tell him of his discovery. What 
happened afterwards none of us ever heard, for there 
were no witnesses to the meeting of these three; but one 
hour before daybreak, my husband was startled out of 
his sleep by loud knocking at our door. Monsieur Pierre 
had sent for him. He was to act as second in a duel be- 
tween our good Pierre and Victor Drummond, to be 
fought at daybreak, in a little strip of woodland adjoin- 
ing these grounds.” 


The Story of an Old House 


35 

“What dreadful hours those must have been between 
one o clock and daybreak,” I timidly suggested. 

“You are right, my child, and believe me, they have 
left their dark impress upon memory’s page. My hus- 
band insisted that I should not leave my room and I 
obeyed him, though I have regretted a thousand times 
since that I listened to cold reason when my heart urged 
me to hurry to poor Sidonie, who must have suffered un- 
told agony during those fateful few hours.” 

Madame rested her head in her hand and, all obliv- 
ious of my presence, gave herself up to old memories. 

I looked about me and asked myself if it were possible 
that in this very room the three, whose sad story had just 
been conjured up from the depths of the dark past, had 
laughed and chatted together, merrily pledging each 
other’s health and happiness in beakers of wine. I looked 
long at Madame Sidonie’s portrait, and the beautiful eyes 
seemed to entreat me not to judge too quickly. 

“My child,” Madame at length said, “I must again 
ask your pardon for my absent-mindedness, but when I 
get to thinking of what might have been, I find myself 
in such a labyrinth of regrets, that it always takes me a 
little while to find my way out again. 


36 The Story of an Old House 

“Alas I There is not much more to tell. Monsieur 
Pierre in his study wrote on and on, ordering his affairs 
so that in case of his death, my husband would know just 
what to do. 

“Marie, Madame Sidonie’s maid, often told me after- 
ward, how her poor mistress implored him again and 
again, and on her knees before his locked door, to allow 
her to enter so that she could tell him everything, but he 
remained deaf to her entreaties. All was over between 
them.” 

“And where was Monsieur Drummond all this time?” 
I asked. 

“I think the old trees in the garden could best answer 
your question. Mademoiselle, for not one of us gave him 
a thought. Just before the meeting, he handed Jules, who 
was to be his second, a note book, which he asked him to 
forward to relatives in New York, and also a few lines 
to us, written on a leaf from this same book. These 
were the words : 

“‘Do not judge me too harshly. God is my 
witness that I struggled bravely and manfully 
against this unholy love ; but it was stronger than 
my better self, stronger than honor, aye, stronger 


The Story of an Old House 


37 


than life itself, and so gained the mastery over me. 

Beg Sidonie to forgive me. May death atone for 
my sin.’ 

“You see, my dear, I know them word for word. Why 
shouldn’t I, for I have wept over them many a time. 

“The rising sun threw its first rosy rays into the little 
woodland, where poor Victor Drummond was breathing 
his last. He whispered to my husband, who was sup- 
porting his head: ‘Do you hear, Loubet, how the birds 
are chanting my requiem? Maybe God will be merciful, 
after all.’ 

“The news of his death was not long in reaching 
Claremont. Marie, who had been sent by her mistress 
to bring her the result of the duel, hastened with the sad 
tidings to Madame’s boudoir. One piercing scream — 
then drawing herself up to her full height, Madame 
Sidonie said, ‘ Marie, I wish to be alone — please go to 
your own room.’ 

“At first I was afraid to venture into Madame 
Sidonie’s presence ; but, thinking I might be of real serv- 
ice, I summoned courage and knocked at her door. There 
was no response. I knocked again and again — still no 
reply. I became thoroughly alarmed and called for help. 


38 The Story of an Old House 

When the door was at length forced open, Madame 
Sidonie was lying on the little sofa in her boudoir cold 
in death. The suffering of the last few hours plainly 
showed itself on the sweet young face and, instead of 
blaming, our hearts went out in the sincerest pity to this 
poor, deluded child. 

“Dr. Benedict pronounced it heart failure. God had 
indeed been good to our Sidonie. On the desk we found 
two letters — one sealed and addressed to her mother, 
the other to Monsieur Pierre lying open and unfinished. 

“I’ll not torture you, my child, with any more de- 
tails, for I can see how deeply the pathos of this story 
has touched you. 

“A few days after his dearly loved wife had been 
laid to rest beside his parents in beautiful Calvary, Mon- 
sieur Pierre began arranging his affairs for a long absence. 
He offered us any rooms in the house that we cared to 
occupy, but neither my husband nor myself entertained 
his kind offer for a moment. Our cozy, cheerful quarters 
were far preferable to the spacious and grand suites of 
the main house, and so for over twenty-one years, these 
magnificent apartments have been peopled only by sad 


memories. 


The Story of an Old House 


39 


“Monsieur Pierre, though he has been satisfied that 
my husband should dispose of much of his property here 
and in various parts of the city, would never agree to 
Claremont’s being sold. ‘I may return some day and 
then wish to find at least one old landmark to guide and 
welcome me.’ 

“The day of his departure. Monsieur Pierre asked 
that I should come to his study ; he wished to speak to me 
alone. I found him seated at his desk with his head 
resting in his hand, pale and haggard — the very shadow 
of his former self. 

“‘Desiree,’ he said, ‘I have sent for you to show you 
these last few lines from Sidonie. I know that you were 
fond of her and that is why I do not wish you to condemn 
her without a hearing.’ Noble Pierre, unselfish even in 
his darkest hours of suffering. 

“I cannot remember. Mademoiselle, all that was in 
that letter, written while death was fast approaching, 
though I read it over several times. But some of the 
sentences literally burned themselves into my brain. This 
is one of them : 

“‘You cannot imagine, Pierre, how very lonely 

I have been at times, so far away from my kin- 


40 


The Story of an Old House 


dred and home ; how often have I envied the birds 
their wings and wished that I could sail with 
the clouds eastward as far as my beloved France. 
Then your great kindness, Pierre, would disarm 
every rebellious thought and I would pray for 
strength and guidance from on high. My little 
prie-dieu can testify how ardent were those 
prayers.’ 

“This was another: 

“‘My heart is fluttering so wildly that I feel 
its work will soon be done, so I must hasten before 
it is too late to implore your mercy. Pierre, when 
I promised to become your wife, I thought I knew 
what love was. Mine was the experience common 
to most French girls, extending from the convent 
school to the altar. Oh, it is a great mistake not 
to permit a young girl to know more of life before 
she takes so important a step.’ 

“I remember the last few sentences were almost illegi- 
ble, written, no doubt, when her troubled spirit was fast 
taking its flight from the beautiful body. 

“You know the rest. Mademoiselle, so I will not tire 
you with repetitions. It is one of those stories taken from 
real life that makes one very thoughtful and sad — is it 
not so, my dear?” 


The Story of an Old House 


41 


“Indeed it is, Madame, and I can understand now 
why the old house looks so sad and lonely.” 

“I do not wish to hurry you, my child, but if you 
really care to see the house, we will have to go further, 
for the lengthening shadows warn us that evening is not 
far off. While I fasten the windows and shutters, won’t 
you take a hurried look at the tapestries and furniture of 
this room? They were the especial pride of Madame 
Elise.” 

I tried to appear interested, but all the tapestried fig- 
ures were just so many Sidonies, Pierres, and Victors to 
my excited fancy, and my eyes would stray toward the 
portrait over the mantel instead of taking in the artistic 
beauty of the rare old furniture, and I was really glad 
when Madame opened the door and we found ourselves 
once more on the landing of the stairway. 

A short flight of steps brought us to the spacious 
upper hall, with its stuccoed ceiling and low rows of 
family portraits, representing the Ricards and de Clare- 
monts. I found these pictures most interesting and was 
enthusiastic in my praise of the exquisitely carved furni- 
ture, which gave to the whole an indescribable air of 
grandeur. 


42 The Story of an Old House 

Madame Desiree seemed pleased and flattered at my 
evident surprise to find such a store of treasures in her 
keeping and said, with much pride: 

“This foyer was a favorite lounging place of Mon- 
sieur Ricard and his guests. Here the gentlemen enjoyed 
their coffee and after-dinner smoke, while the ladies wan- 
dered into the salons and music room. Do you know. 
Mademoiselle, sometimes when I am up here assisting 
Abigail with her work, the old portraits seem to take life 
unto themselves and call to me : ‘Desiree, where have they 
all gone — the happy ones whose laughter was so good 
to hear, and whose dear faces we miss so sadly? Tell us I 
Tell us!’ Then it is I begin to sing at the top of my 
voice, the better to drive away all dark thoughts, though 
my husband declares it is my cracked voice that rids the 
place of spirits — they never could bear poor music, these 
fastidious Ricards.” 

I smiled, but I confess it was in a half-frightened 
fashion. In spite of the sun’s streaming in through the 
large glass door at the end of the hall, I felt chilly and 
a trifle ill at ease. We made a hurried tour of the “state 
apartments,” as Madame Desiree termed them. They 


The Story of an Old House 43 

were too full of the odor of camphor and pepper to make 
any stay in them possible. 

On the floor above, we strolled through the various 
suites, all full of interesting reminiscences to my untiring 
guide. We tarried longest in Madame Sidonie’s little 
boudoir. The desk and couch — in fact, everything was 
left just as it had been in the long ago. 

“You know. Mademoiselle, our good Pierre may come 
back some day and he shall find everything just as he 
left it.” 

In the adjoining room, the old-fashioned dressing 
table, inside which the various toilet articles had been 
placed for safe keeping, interested me greatly. Poor 
Sidonie I How often this little mirror had reflected her 
beautiful self! And nearby the little pne-dieu had its 
place — the silent witness of her struggles and suffering. 

The roseate glow of the soft August twilight was 
deepening into purple shadows, and we retraced our steps. 
Our footfalls resounded gloomily and, I must confess, I 
felt grateful to reach the oak door leading into Madame 
Loubet’s quarters. As it swung back, I slipped through, 
and even Madame Desiree seemed relieved when she had 


44 The Story of an Old House 

turned the key and replaced it in the little basket she had 
carried during our tour of the old house. 

We found Monsieur Loubet comfortably ensconced 
in his chintz-covered easy chair near the window, reading 
the evening paper, smoking his long pipe and stroking the 
soft coat of the Maltese cat that was resting snugly on his 
knee. He was the very picture of contentment and there 
was such an air of comfort about the place, that I at once 
felt its influence. By degrees the cloud of depression that 
had settled upon my spirits, during our visit to Madame 
Sidonie’s haunts, was lifted and I was glad indeed to be 
my light-hearted, happy self once more. 

The Loubets pressed me to remain longer; but it 
was growing late, and so I had to make rather hasty 
** adieus” after having thanked Madame Desiree warmly 
for her great kindness. 

“If you really enjoyed it, Mademoiselle Ernestine, 
you will come again ; and so, we will not say ‘Good-by,’ but 
*Au revoir!” 

I was only too glad to promise this. As we stepped 
out on the little clematis-covered porch, Murat espied us 
and came bounding towards the house. 

“Not so rough, Murat. How often have I told you 


The Story of an Old House 


45 


not to be so forward. Really, your manners do not show 
much training.” But all the while, Madame was strok- 
ing his beautiful head lovingly, as if he were human, 
while Monsieur Loubet’s kindly eyes looked on, full of 
admiration. 

They walked with me through the garden, which was 
still aglow with the evening light. At the gate au re- 
votrs** were once more said, then, with Murat for an 
escort, I continued down the road. Halfway down, we 
were met by the entire brood of Grandma Cuckadoo’s 
descendants. I looked for my erstwhile talkative friend, 
but there was such a close resemblance between her and 
her sisters, cousins, and aunts, that I could not distinguish 
between them. Is it possible that our conversation had 
been a dream after all? 

At the foot of the hill we parted company, and soon 
Claremont, with its memories, its romances, and its 
tragedy, lay far behind me. 








h i .Tfet 


S': fl*"'®-.', ^ 

•'Mi 

>A ^ j 




.1 : ^ :' 

> I • » fU J 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 








THE STRATEGY OF GRANDMA TERRENCE 


I 

ARRISON PIKE was lying white and 
dusty beneath a broiling July sun. Not 
a breath of air stirred the leaves of the 
old apple tree in Grandma Terrence’s 
garden — the fine old tree that was 
known far and wide for its great size 
and the generous way In which It divided Its shade betwixt 
garden and village street. 

All nature seemed to be taking a siesta — all except 
the flies, who, no doubt realizing that they had but a short 
time to live, felt that they had no hours to waste in after- 
noon napping. The buzzing of their wings lulled the 
young boy, lying on the grass where the shade was densest, 
into a half slumber, from which he was rudely awakened 
by the words of a passer-by halting his weary team at the 
garden gate. 

“Say, Bub, can you give me and my team a drink of 
water? I am that parched that my tongue is cleaving to 
the roof of my mouth.” 



49 


50 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


“Why, yes, of course. Come right in and sit down on 
the bench yonder, while I go and get you some water fresh 
from the well.” 

“I never did see such heat as we are having this sum- 
mer,” the man continued, as he seated himself, mopping 
his face and hands and waiting eagerly for Ralph to bring 
the bucket to the surface. 

At the sound of the stranger’s voice. Grandma Ter- 
rence, who had been napping in her comfortable rocking 
chair near the open dining room door, started to her feet 
as If touched by an electric shock. 

“My God! Have the dead come back, or have I 
been dreaming? That was Will’s voice if I ever heard it 1 ” 

Stepping out upon the vine-covered porch where she 
was screened from view, but could herself overlook the 
garden, she watched Ralph as he handed the stranger a 
gourdful of the cool, refreshing well water. He had his 
back to her, but not for an Instant did her strained glance 
stray from where he was seated. 

After the man had bathed his face and hands and 
taken one more draught of the deliciously cool beverage, 
he turned to Ralph, saying: “This is fine water and I 
cannot recall when anything tasted better. After all. 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 51 


there is nothing that quenches the thirst, as water does.’’ 

“I guess you’re just about right,” the boy replied. 

“And now. Bub, I will thank you for a helping hand 
to water my team.” 

All this time the stranger had never once turned his 
face toward the house. As he started for the gate, how- 
ever, he came into full view of the old lady behind her 
shield of tangled vines. 

“Heaven help me! If he is not as like Will as two 
peas in the same pod! A little darker of skin and hair 
and a trifle more heft, but how like, how like!” 

As fast as her old feet could carry her. Grandma 
Terrence descended the little wooden steps leading from 
the porch to the garden and, by the time the stranger 
and Ralph returned with the water pail, they found her 
standing close to the well. 

“Excuse me, Sir, for interrupting you, but you look 
so much like some one I knew years ago that I am curious 
to find out if maybe you might not be some kin to him. 
I mean Will Davis, formerly of this township.” 

Poor Mrs. Terrence was so agitated as she spoke 
these words that she could barely stand, and when the 
man answered: “I have been asked that question so 


52 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


often lately. Why yes, we were related. Will Davis 
was my cousin, the son of mother’s only brother, Heze- 
kiah Davis.” 

“I knew it,” was all the old lady could utter, as she 
sank upon the bench nearby. 

“Did you know the Davis family. Ma’am?” 

“Yes, yes, very well; but we have not laid eyes on 
any of them since the old folks sold the farm and fol- 
lowed their girls to Iowa. At first we heard from them 
regularly, but it has been a long time now since we have 
had a line. You will excuse my seeming so prying, but 
how came you to these parts, my good man?” 

“Why, you see, it was sorrow that drove me from 
the old farm in West Virginia, where I was born and 
bred. My wife died first; then mother stepped in and 
took charge of my two little girls and the household 
and somehow things went on much as they had before. 
But it was not a year after when mother sickened and 
died and the old place became unbearable to me, and I 
made up my mind to settle elsewhere and begin life all 
over again. I knew the Davis farm was for sale — 
Aunt Maria happened to mention it in one of her letters 
to Mother — and, knowing it was good land, I came here 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 53 


last winter to look at it and to buy it if I could get it 
at my figure. It didn’t take long to settle matters, and 
three months ago I moved my household and all to this 
county.” 

“It is good of you to tell me all this,” Mrs. Terrence 
said; “and, mind you, it wasn’t an old woman’s curiosity 
that prompted my asking. Your uncle’s family were 
good friends of ours, and my husband was their pastor 
for years. Being kin to them, I hope you will not feel 
strange toward us, but will look in upon us sometimes 
as you go by.” 

“Thank you. Ma’am, but it is not often that I go to 
the city, and I cannot think what prompted me to choose 
this plagued hot morning for going there today, though 
I am grateful to the chance that brought me such pleas- 
ant acquaintances. By the way, I have not told you yet 
who I am. My name is Rogers — Jack Rogers.” 

“And mine is Terrence,” the old lady hastened to 
add; “and this is my grandson, Ralph Brown, as good 
a boy as you will find in all Ohio.” 

“Golly, Gran’ma, don’t you be giving us any of that,” 
Ralph exclaimed, blushing to the roots of his hair. “My, 
but those horses were thirsty I” he hastily added, to change 


54 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


the subject. “This is three bucketfuls I have given them 
and they seem to be hankerin’ for more.’* 

“Thank you, young man; they have had quite enough 
— maybe more than is good for them. But I will have 
to be getting home now, for there will be two little girls 
mighty anxious to know what their father brought them 
from the city.” 

All this time Grandma Terrence’s brain was work- 
ing at fever heat. 

“How can I manage to have him call again? For 
they must meet. She must see him. But how — when — 
where? Oh, if I could only think!” 

These thoughts were whirling through her brain ever 
since Jack Rogers told her the brief history of his com- 
ing to Westwood. But there was no time for thinking 
now. She would have to act, and, catching at the latest 
plan as it glinted through her inner consciousness, she 
boldly hurled it forth. 

“Have you gone in much for the raising of fine 
fowl, Mr. Rogers?” she asked. 

“Well, yes.” 

Without giving him time to say more, the old lady 
burst forth: “I wish you would sell me a coop of fine 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 55 

chickens. I am that tired of paying for no ’count eggs 
that I have made up my mind to start a hennery of my 
own.” 

With wide-open mouth and eyes, Ralph listened to 
his grandmother as she negotiated for her purchase. 
What had come over the old lady who, all these years, 
had obdurately refused to allow him to keep fowl of 
any kind for fear they might scratch up her verbena 
beds or interfere with the coming of crocuses and may- 
bells? Indeed, the only unpleasantness he could remem- 
ber between his grandmother and their next-door neigh- 
bor, Mrs. Nostrum, the druggist’s wife, had been brought 
about by the persistency of the Nostrum brood of ban- 
tams having invaded the Terrence garden. Grandma 
claimed that they made her life miserable, as she had 
to be on the lookout for them constantly. And now, 
in the face of everything, here was Grandma ordering 
a lot of them herself. 

Before Ralph recovered from his surprise, it had 
been arranged that Mr. Rogers should leave a coop of 
the offenders when next he passed by on his way to the 
city, which would be on the following Thursday. 

“Could you tell about what time of day we may 


56 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 

look for you?” Mrs. Terrence suggested, “as I wish to 
be on hand when you come.” 

“Probably ten o’clock, Ma’am.” 

The horses, refreshed and rested by the rather long 
wait, started off briskly as Mr. Rogers, with a cheery 
“Good day,” took the lines, and soon were lost to sight 
in a cloud of dust. 

“What has come over you, Gran’ma, ordering 
chickens yourself, when you would never listen to my 
keeping any?” 

“That’s all right, Ralph. Maybe, some day, I will 
be able to explain just why I did it; but don’t bother 
me with questions now, child, don’t bother me!” 

Almost briskly, the old lady returned to the house, 
where her huge, old-fashioned rocker invited her to re- 
sume her interrupted midday rest. But sleep was gone, 
and so Mrs. Terrence had recourse to her never-failing 
remedy for excited nerves — her patch work, which, in 
its voluminous bag, was swinging from one of the arms 
of the old rocker. 

Could it be possible that at length her prayer was 
to be answered, and that God in His mercy had Himself 
led the stranger to their very gate? Could it be pos- 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


57 


sible that after all these years Elizabeth might once more 
be freed from the cloud of mourning that had settled 
itself upon her heart ever since death had claimed her 
lover ? Oh, it was a consummation devoutly to be wished 
for, and if it should fail, it should not be for lack of 
having tried on the part of Grandma Terrence. And 
as stitch after stitch is being put into the patchwork, 
forming a kind of running accompaniment to the old 
lady’s thought, let me tell you a bit of the family history 
of the Terrences. 

II 

You may go up and down along the length and 
breadth of the State of Ohio, and you will not find a 
cozier and sunnier place than the cottage in the village 
of Westwood occupied by the Reverend Richard Ter- 
rence and his family. Mr. Terrence is a minister of 
the old school, one whose heart and head are ever ready 
to render his fellow men a service, and whose kindly 
face would soften the hardest sinner into a confession 
and repentance of his sins; while his wife is just what 
a minister’s wife should be — a true helpmate and bit of 
sunshine, not only to her husband’s parishioners, but to 
the whole village. 


58 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 

Old Mrs. Chatterton, whose millinery and fancy 
goods shop is at the corner of Main Street, from which 
splendid point of vantage she can see everything that 
is going on, vows and declares that one has only to turn 
into Lucy Terrence’s trim and shady garden from the 
dust and glare of the turnpike, and directly one feels a 
kind of homely comfort stealing over one, which no other 
place in Westwood can impart. 

Two daughters came to bless this happy home — 
Caroline, who in the course of time became the wife of 
George Brown, the contractor and builder of Hamilton, 
and Elizabeth. With the death of the former, the first 
shadow fell upon the little household, and for a time 
dimmed its sunshine. But the baby boy, whom Caroline 
left her parents as a precious legacy, cooed and laughed 
its way into their tender hearts, and did much to fill the 
place made vacant by its mother’s death. 

All the village knew that pretty Elizabeth Terrence 
and Will Davis were sweethearts, but very few, not even 
Mrs. Chatterton, with all her alertness, surmised that 
on the evening before Will bade adieu to mother, father, 
sweetheart, and friends to join the ranks of the Ninth 
Ohio Regiment, Mr. Terrence had solemnized his be- 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 59 

trothal with Elizabeth, and that it was agreed that the 
wedding should take place immediately upon the young 
soldier’s return from the great War of the Rebellion. 
With a smile and some tears, Elizabeth gave him a silver 
heart containing her picture, bidding him wear it over his 
own heart as a talisman. Years afterward, it was returned 
to her by one of Will’s comrades of the Ninth Ohio, to 
whose safe keeping he had intrusted it when he felt the 
shades of death enveloping him, exacting a promise that 
should his friend be spared, he would deliver it himself 
to Elizabeth, with the assurance that Will’s last thought 
on earth was a prayer for his beloved one. 

Eight years have passed since then, but the villagers, 
when discussing the valiant deeds of their brave towns- 
men, never fail to mention the heroic girl who, exchang- 
ing the comforts of home for the hardships of a hospital 
nurse, followed the first call for volunteers and for two 
years rendered splendid service where it was most needed. 
She tried to remain as near her lover as the exigencies 
of the situation permitted. And so, when the fatal day 
came, and at the great battle of Chickamauga Will Davis 
saw the last of life, Elizabeth was not far away. Thanks 
to the efforts of Sister Anthony, with whom the young 


6o The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


nurse was a great favorite, special permission was granted 
her to pass the various lines with her precious charge, and, 
after a most tedious journey and many delays, home was 
reached on the dismal last day of September, 1863. The 
long journey, coming after so many anxious months, and 
accompanied by such untold grief, proved too much for 
Elizabeth, and they had hardly laid brave and handsome 
Will Davis away in the little cemetery just outside of 
Westwood, when all the efforts of mother, father, and 
kind neighbors were needed for Elizabeth, who seemed 
to be slowly but surely slipping away from them. Weeks 
of weary watching and waiting followed, and at length 
a robust constitution triumphed, and with the coming of 
the New Year, Elizabeth once more took her old place 
in life, but oh, how changed! How saddened! As soon 
as possible, she resumed her teaching, realizing that in 
all-absorbing occupation lay the only salvation for the 
grief stricken. Today she is one of the best loved and 
most successful teachers of the Westwood School. 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 6i 


III 

Who, looking upon the peaceful picture of Grandma 
Terrence in her huge rocker, adding patch after patch to 
her work, would ever guess that a great conspiracy was 
going on in the brain of this apparently harmless old 
woman? But such was the case, for she was planning 
with all her might how she could bring two souls that had 
hitherto been wandering far apart and in different spheres 
together, and she called to her side the little spirits who 
do the bidding of the God of Love, to help her arrange 
a plan of procedure. 

On sped the hours, and stitch followed stitch. Once 
again the old clock on the dining room mantel began mak- 
ing elaborate preparations for striking the hour. It was 
a gurgling sound, as if it were clearing its throat so that 
it could better announce to the household — its own little 
world — the time of day. At the sound of its voice. 
Grandma started. 

“Good gracious me; it’s five o’clock, and I haven’t 
done a stroke towards getting supper! Father and Eliza- 
beth will be getting home, and here I am, with nothing 
ready for them. Where is Ralph, I wonder?” 


62 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


Hastily gathering up her work and stepping out upon 
the porch, Mrs. Terrence looked through the garden and 
then called to Ralph, but there was no reply. From afar 
off she heard the sound of a bugle. 

‘Tf there isn’t the omnibus already! I will have to 
hurry now. No depending upon that boy to help me. 
He is off to meet the bus.” 

The coming and going of the Miamitown bus was a 
great event each morning and evening to the villagers 
of Westwood. It was a large, lumbering affair, which, 
on all days but Sunday, made the trip from Miamitown 
to Cincinnati under the guidance of one Bill Post, who 
was known the country round for the able way in which 
he handled the reins, managed his bugle, and could crack 
a joke. It was a privilege to sit on the outside with Bill, 
and people would scramble for the seat beside him, for 
he was a royal entertainer and the distance seemed much 
shorter in such good company. 

Bill was descended from a family of noted whips. 
His father drove the coach from London to Brighton for 
forty years and, when he laid down the reins, his eldest 
son took them up and held them until the steam engine 
made the stage coach a back number. When Bill took 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 63 

charge of the Miamitown omnibus, twenty-five years ago, 
he introduced all the features of English stage coaching. 
His innovations found great favor with his patrons, and 
many declared that they did not mind the discomforts of 
the great, lumbering vehicle half so much as they did for- 
merly, for the merry sound of the bugle and Bill’s frequent 
call to his horses, which they invariably answered with a 
neigh, and, if the load were not too heavy, with a quick- 
ening pace, varied the monotony of the trip. As the bus 
rolled on past well-kept farms and through pretty Ohio 
villages, the bugle never failed to bring the people to the 
windows and gate or to the edge of the field, and “Good 
morning” and “Good evening. Bill,” was called from all 
sides. 

This evening, as they pulled up in front of the Seven- 
Mile House, the famous tavern of Westwood, which was 
Bill’s halting place, the usual crowd of villagers had col- 
lected to welcome those who were coming, and wish god- 
speed to those who were going farther. Elizabeth and 
her father had spent the day in the city attending a con- 
vention of ministers. As they alighted, many raised their 
hats, for the old parson and Miss Elizabeth were more 
than ordinary folk. The boys who were sitting on the 


64 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


fence of the triangle which divides the tavern from the 
main street stopped their whittling and joking long 
enough to greet their well-loved teacher as she passed 
them on her way home. 

IV 

Meanwhile the hours and days were speeding on, 
and Thursday was approaching with rapid strides. Ralph 
had been sworn to secrecy, while Mr. Terrence had been 
told only what his wife deemed necessary for him to 
know of her meeting with Jack Rogers. The dear man 
shook his wise old head and warned his wife not to for- 
get that “the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft 
agley.” But Grandma Terrence, nothing daunted, an- 
swered: “You know they do say that our good Lord loves 
to help those who try to help themselves. I feel that He 
will prosper me in this undertaking. I feel it, I feel it!” 

“So may it be. Wife, so may it be!” 

But there was one important fact of which this arch 
conspirator knew nothing, and that was, that Elizabeth 
and Jack Rogers had met several months before, during 
the time the latter was at Hamilton Township inspecting 
the Davis farm. He had driven into Westwood one 
December morning, when the snow-covered earth lay 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 65 

shimmering in the sunshine, and, putting up his horses 
at the Seven-Mile House, decided to explore the town. 
The air was clear and crisp and so full of ozone that it 
made one’s blood tingle as it coursed merrily through 
one’s veins. 

Elizabeth was on her way to school and, as she 
walked briskly on, thought she had never seen the country 
more beautiful than on this winter morning. “Life is 
beautiful,” she was thinking, “and it is only our perverted 
selves, who will not see it so at all times.” 

As she turned into School Lane, she was brought sud- 
denly face to face with a tall, robust man whose cheeks 
were rosy from the cold and whose blue eyes were twin- 
kling with merriment as he watched the boys pelting each 
other with snowballs on their way to school. He and 
Elizabeth almost collided — the plank walk in School 
Lane was never any too wide — and, lifting his hat, the 
stranger said courteously, “I beg your pardon, Miss, I 
did not see you coming.” 

Elizabeth could not utter a word in reply. She felt 
herself growing faint and the sunshine turning to dark- 
ness. She clutched at the wall and would have fallen had 
not the stranger rushed to her support. But it was only 


66 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


for a moment. With a mighty effort she mastered the 
weakness that had gotten the better of her and, turning 
to the man, said sweetly, “Thank you so much, but I 
am better now.’’ And, with the slightest little bow, she 
disengaged herself and turned her face towards school. 

The stranger watched her out of sight, then slowly 
turned and pursued his way through the village, which he 
was seeing for the first time, and in a little while forgot 
all about his encounter with the pretty school mistress. 
But it was not so with Elizabeth. All that day she per- 
formed her duties as one in a dream. Who could he be ? 
Where was he from? Would they meet again? But as 
the days passed and she saw him no more, the memory of 
that meeting was laid away with many sad ones to keep it 
company. 

V 

Thursday, July 7th, was not many hours old when 
Grandma Terrence awoke. As further sleep was impos- 
sible, she made a hasty toilet and came down into the gar- 
den. The birds, who had already caroled their morning 
hymn, fell to wondering what could have brought their 
kind old friend, who never failed to throw them the 
crumbs from her table, out of doors so early. They 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 67 

twittered and twittered to each other from twig to twig, 
until Grandma Terrence called to them to stop their noise 
or they would awaken the entire household. Then she 
stopped to break off a withered leaf here and there and 
to praise her mignonette and begonias for their sweet 
fragrance and sturdy beauty. From the garden gate she 
watched the village awaken. Shutters were thrown open 
here and there, and by and by there was activity on all 
sides, and she realized that it was time to prepare the 
morning meal. But this little seance with nature had so 
refreshed the old lady, that she felt herself strengthened 
and ready for the day’s ordeal, for such she intuitively 
felt it would be — the first meeting (as she thought) 
between Elizabeth and this living counterpart of Will 
Davis. 

It had been arranged that Elizabeth should spend the 
morning with her friend, Nanette Fields, who was enter- 
taining some city friends. As she went to her room to 
dress, her mother called after her, “Be sure to put on 
your best. Daughter, for Lucy Chatterton told me yester- 
day that Nanette must be having some mighty high- 
flown company, for she never saw such style as they had 
on when they stopped at her place Tuesday to match 
some zephyr.” 


68 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


As the kitchen clock pointed its bony finger to the 
half-hour after nine, Grandma Terrence grew more and 
more nervous. She was sorry now that she had ma- 
noeuvred her husband and Ralph out of the house, but it 
was too late to change the program, and she would have 
to act her part as best she could. 

“Elizabeth, have you finished?’* 

“Directly, Mother.” 

“I wish you would come down and watch this bread 
in the oven, for I have such a stitch in my side that I 
can hardly stand for pain. I am afraid I shall have to 
lie down for a spell.” 

Elizabeth was at her mother’s side in an instant and 
helped her dissembling parent, with her arm about her, to 
her room, where she made her comfortable on the sofa. 

“Mind you watch that bread, Elizabeth,” Mrs. 
Terrence called, as her daughter retraced her steps to the 
kitchen. She was hardly out of sight when Mrs. Ter- 
rence hied herself to the window, from which she had an 
unobstructed view of the turnpike. 

“Good Lord, forgive me for this deception!” she 
cried. “Thou who hast so deeply implanted love for her 
children in the mother heart, will surely understand and 
readily forgive.” 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 69 


A wagon came along the road. “My gracious! Can 
that be Mr. Rogers?” No, it was only Mr. Riley, the 
coal merchant. Then the butcher’s cart came pegging 
along and right behind it a roomy barouche full of the 
summer boarders at Fischer’s. Ordinarily the comings 
and goings of these city folk were of interest to the vil- 
lagers, but today Mrs. Terrence was too much agitated 
to give them a thought. In the meantime, the odor of 
fresh bread was wafted up from the kitchen, and with it 
a new source of worry for the eager watcher at the west 
window. What if Jack Rogers should be too late to meet 
Elizabeth? But no, from afar she could see a wagon 
approaching, and this time it was the expected caller. But 
he was not alone. There was a man with him. What if 
it should be one of his farm hands who would probably 
deliver the order ? This time Grandma did have a stitch 
in her side, and it was dangerously close to the heart, 
too; but she was kept in suspense for only a moment. 
Jack Rogers threw the reins to his companion and, lifting 
the box on his strong young shoulders, passed through 
the garden gate and disappeared within the house. Mrs. 
Terrence hurried to open the door and listen intently. 
When she heard Elizabeth say, “I will send my mother,” 


70 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


she slowly made her way to the sofa and had but trem- 
blingly reached it when her daughter landed at the top 
of the stairs. 

“Mother, there is a man below who wishes to see 
you.” 

Before the old lady could utter a word in reply, she 
had passed her and in another moment was closing the 
door of her own little room. And the key, as it turned in 
the lock, snapped back a warning to follow no farther. 
She listened for a moment at Elizabeth’s door. Repressed 
sobbing from within gave the mother strength, and hurry- 
ing below, she found Jack Rogers waiting for her with a 
look of wonderment on his face that more plainly than 
words asked an explanation for this singular reception. 

“Mr. Rogers, I feel that I owe you an apology for 
my daughter’s strange behavior. Sit down, won’t you? 
I have something to say to you. You remember, Mr. 
Rogers, the other day when I told you that you are the 
born image of your cousin. Will Davis, you answered that 
many hereabout had told you the same thing. Mr. Rogers, 
my daughter Elizabeth, who has just left this room, was 
engaged to Will, and, had he been spared, they would 
have been married these many years. But the Lord 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 71 


willed otherwise, and ever since his death, this poor young 
thing has remained true to his memory though many are 
the suitors who have come to woo our girl.” 

“Now I remember where I met your daughter before. 
It was last winter, when I came in from the Davis farm 
to spend the day in Westwood. And I recall, too, that, 
just as she turned deathly pale this morning, she came 
near fainting then. Poor girl I Our meetings both times 
were so sudden like. It is not surprising that she was 
startled, as I must resemble Will Davis more than is 
ordinary. I’m sorry it happened. Ma’am.” 

“Oh, it is not your fault, Mr. Rogers, but mine. I 
had a right to tell her that you were coming.” 

This much and more Grandma Terrence said to her 
visitor on this memorable July morning, and, as Mr. 
Rogers arose to go, she asked him to call again. 

“I will, if you will let me, for I should like to ask 
the young lady’s pardon for having caused her pain, 
though surely it was through no fault of mine.” 

And he did come again, and with each visit was made 
more and more welcome, for to know Jack Rogers was to 
like him. Little by little, he won his way to Elizabeth’s 
heart and, under the warm glances of his merry eyes, the 


72 The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 


ice that had so long fettered her heart’s affections began 
to melt, and once more the God of Love was triumphant. 

VI 

Mrs. Chatterton was not the only one of the vil- 
lagers who noticed and commented upon Jack’s frequent 
visits to the Terrence home. Mrs. Nostrum applied the 
pump of inquiry to susceptible Ralph, and heard from 
him much that made interesting gossip after prayer meet- 
ing. And even Grandma Terrence, in the exuberance of 
her joy that all was coming round just as she had wisely 
planned, was not averse to telling of the splendid improve- 
ments Mr. Rogers was making on the old Davis farm; 
how he was modernizing the house ; and, best of all, how 
his little girls were growing fonder and fonder of 
Elizabeth. 

And when the Christmas bells were once again ringing 
out the glad tidings of good will to men, there was a 
wedding in Westwood. The church had been decorated 
with holly and evergreen by Elizabeth’s pupils and under 
the supervision of the organist, Mr. Owens. As the sun 
came stealing in through the windows, he was astonished 
at the transfiguration of the usually plain interior to one 


The Strategy of Grandma Terrence 73 


of rare beauty, and he was pleased with it and by his 
witchery made the scarlet of the holly to glow and its 
green to shimmer, and the stained glass of the windows 
to reflect their radiance upon walls and woodwork. 

And how merrily the wedding bells sounded on this 
sunny winter morning! The clear atmosphere lent them 
a resonance all its own, and they seemed never to weary 
calling the villagers together to witness the marriage of 
their beloved parson’s daughter. Nanette Fields whis- 
pered to Polly Jones, seated in the pew in front of her, 
that this was the most romantic wedding she had ever 
attended. 

“It’s quite like the ending in books, isn’t it? You 
know, it does seem as if marriages were arranged in 
heaven, or how would Jack Rogers ever have found his 
way to Elizabeth?” 

We think Nanette is right, but we also agree with 
Grandma Terrence that our good Lord likes to help those 
who try to help themselves. 


LINES 

(/» Memory of Erna Rice') 

BY M. M. 

A sunny-haired cherub, with love-tender eyes, 

One of the sweetest in God’s Paradise, 

From roseate regions was bidden to go 
And tarry a season with mortals below. 

A beautiful mansion was hallowed and blest. 

With hope of receiving this heavenly guest — 

A feather of Love wafted down to the earth 
Through Nature’s transcendent miracle — ^birth. 

A tiny girl baby — ’twas in such a guise 
The cherub celestial came down from the skies ; 

And with her came winging the thrill and the glow — 
That touch of the Infinite all mothers may know. 

Oh, Woman mysterious, with sacred heart shrines. 
With holy high altars where Love’s taper shines. 
What glory supernal transfigures thy life 
When sweet name of Mother is added to Wife ! 

All blithely her childhood fast flitted away. 

Still binding more closely hearts to her each day ; 

But as she was nearing the mystical shore 
Of young womanhood, about to pass o’er. 

Her soul caught the music of heavenly chimes. 

The Cherubim wooing her back to their climes ; 

A spirit voice whispered : “Come home, gentle one. 
Thy earth-work is finished, thy mission is done !” 

O mother, cease mourning thine idol of clay, 

’Mid tears and heart-aching laid, broken, away ; 

For henceforth and ever, with love-tender eyes. 

She waits for thy coming in God’s Paradise ! 

74 












I » 






i V'^ % ' r I V r* t 

£S\' '> 'iJ-ki.- :■ ■.' 

«.; •." 'V '. , ■•' ■ 

ill’ :*> > ilTt * ' - 




^ v« 











Deacidifi^ using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC 
111 TTiomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp.. PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 




• »« . 


, -V. ^ U . ..V J- . , • 

w V.-" ' "w?. r-' ■ • - 

V , .; ' 

.‘V .-u ;• 

' \ < 0 " . • . • f I > ,- 

•' ■ .«v, ^ 

• ■ •. '* r' ■ ' .' 


1 . 

, . f . 




$ 





, ;■ , . % • .*V i~ - • '. ■/ - N >i><> - • V I •' • 

-".v/v 

.•••■, . ;• - n . 

library of congress 


DODSEa'lOSE'^ 


l“4 







